


in love and war

by AmnesiacFloozy (AlleyCatSunflower)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arguing, Complicated Relationships, Courtship, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyCatSunflower/pseuds/AmnesiacFloozy
Summary: If Ingrid is being honest, Felix's apparent regression to his past selfhurts. She thought they were closer than that—enough so that he might at least grasp that her desire to fight for Faerghus far outweighs her desire to settle down. In private, Ingrid does have her lonely moments, but they are all spent wishing that she could marry for love.Still, even if she could, what is love like? A passionate affair, a whirlwind romance, something out of the stories she adores? Something seemingly fated, like Dimitri and the Archbishop, or soft and sweet, like Ashe and Annette? Or perhaps something closer to familial attachment, like she feels for Sylvain? Is love just glorified friendship?Ingrid wishes she could get Felix out of her head long enough to find out.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	in love and war

**Author's Note:**

> OC is marked as minor despite playing a fairly major role because, for all his time in the spotlight, he's really nothing more than a device. Poor thing.

Ingrid doesn't make much of a habit of brooding, but today, she can't help but sigh.

She hoped that her father's matchmaking would end after the war, but instead, he's more determined than ever to marry her off, thanks in part to the reputation she earned. Deeds on the battlefield mean little in terms of the house's fortune, even with His Majesty's favor to help her along. To secure prosperity for future generations, Ingrid must still marry well, whether she likes it or not.

At this point, Ingrid is more tempted than ever to cast off the burden of her inheritance and take up her lance instead.

Honestly, she has been considering serving House Blaiddyd as a knight for some time. Ingrid's patience with her father's insistence is wearing thin, and her friends have limited advice. Dimitri had the luck to fall in love with the Professor, or rather the Archbishop, whose capacity to lead is unquestionable. And, more recently, Ashe has been blessed with Annette's support and guidance to help stabilize Gaspard territory.

Sylvain, meanwhile, has the advantage of having been born into a house that is prosperous enough to withstand any choice of wife. He could marry a commoner and be no worse off for it, so he doesn't seem to understand that Ingrid does not have that same luxury. She does not have the same ability to do whatever she wants without concern for the consequences, even if—as Sylvain points out—being disinherited will make her dream more possible, not less.

And Felix… Ingrid sighs all over again. A week or two ago, she made the mistake of going to him for advice. Just to hear his opinion, she had told herself, and wished immediately afterward that she hadn't. _You can do both if you marry the right person_. Felix's dismissive words echo in Ingrid's ears even now, and she scowls at no one. He's always the first to remind her of her duty, all the while managing to evade his own.

In that sense, Felix couldn't be more different from Glenn if he tried. Because of that, they agreed long ago that their friendship was not for Glenn's sake, but for its own. Yet there are times Ingrid wonders why they are friends at all. She has thought more than once that they simply can't let go of their shared history, or that they share too many friends to distance themselves from one another, but if that answer were the right one, she would not still be wondering.

Ingrid supposes she can't help but care for Felix, though has her doubts about whether he cares for _her_ , at least now that the war is over. When they fought side by side, he seemed to understand her drive, regarding her as an equal on the battlefield. During that time, Ingrid realized that behind his acerbic manner and mordant wit lies a much more compassionate heart. But ever since Fódlan's unification under the flag of Faerghus, her glimpses of it have been as few and far between as in their school days.

If Ingrid is being honest, Felix's apparent regression to his past self _hurts_. She thought they were closer than that—enough so that he might at least grasp that her desire to fight for Faerghus far outweighs her desire to settle down. In private, Ingrid does have her lonely moments, but they are all spent wishing that she could marry for love.

Still, even if she could, what is love like? A passionate affair, a whirlwind romance, something out of the stories she adores? Something seemingly fated, like Dimitri and the Archbishop, or soft and sweet, like Ashe and Annette? Or perhaps something closer to familial attachment, like she feels for Sylvain? Is love just glorified friendship?

Ingrid wishes she could get Felix out of her head long enough to find out.

The door opens; the maid curtsies. "Lord Albert Erling Gideon, my lady."

Taking a deep breath, Ingrid steels herself to meet her latest match, and gets to her feet. She managed to defy her father in two ways only, in that she refused to wear a dress today, and requested that her father take a long walk while negotiations were in place. All her prospective husbands ought to know what kind of woman they are dealing with, and her father should very specifically _not_.

The man who enters is tall, with light brown hair in a low ponytail, and pale eyes whose exact color Ingrid can't discern. His youth catches her off-guard; she was expecting someone noticeably older than herself, as has been the case with most of her other suitors. If his manners match his looks, she might at least consider befriending him.

"Welcome, Lord Gideon," says Ingrid, bowing like a knight rather than curtsying like a lady.

Gideon looks slightly confused, but bows as well. "It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Galatea," he says, taking Ingrid's hand, and kisses the back of it. She has always hated that custom, and struggles to suppress the instinct to tug her hand from his grasp, but manages to stay still until he withdraws.

"Please, sit," says Ingrid, seating herself at one end of the couch, and gestures to the tray laid out on the low table before them. At least he was punctual enough that it should be perfectly steeped by now. "Would you care for some tea?" She does her best not to speak too tonelessly, but she has been through this enough times that she is not sure how successful she is.

Gideon does not seem to notice. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you," he says, and sits down at the opposite end of the couch as Ingrid pours his tea. As unseemly as it may be for a lady to do such a thing for a stranger, they only have two servants, and both are recent additions to the household. She is not accustomed to the idea of being constantly watched and listened to. "You must forgive me for saying so, but you are… not what I was expecting."

"Is that so?" asks Ingrid, trying valiantly to sound interested in Gideon's opinion as she pours herself a cup of tea as well. Chamomile, of course. It might keep her calm, given how restless she has felt inside ever since hearing what Felix had to say. (She wishes she had more control over her own thoughts; he does not deserve her attention and energy right now.)

"You earned quite a fierce reputation as a warrior," says Gideon, sounding almost apologetic, as though he is pointing out a flaw rather than an accomplishment. "I assumed more of it might show in your appearance and surroundings, but you have every appearance of nobility."

"Well, that's a relief," says Ingrid, unable to help the faintest note of sarcasm—Gideon does not appear to catch it, which can only be a good thing—and gestures to her own attire. "I got out of the habit of wearing skirts years ago, and I don't intend to pick it up again."

"As is your right as a lady," says Gideon, but does not look like he approves. Still, even simply holding his tongue about it is a better reaction than Ingrid hoped for. "Whatever your appearance, you are still the daughter of a count."

"And you look to be a lord through and through," says Ingrid, taking a sip of tea, and Gideon smiles before doing the same. Even though Ingrid cannot force any warmth into her voice, he seems to have taken her observation as a compliment anyway. "You are the son of Baron Gideon, yes?"

"I am," says Gideon, inclining his head. "I was born and raised as the scion of my house, but as I have no Crest… it falls to me to make a good match." Ingrid nods; it is clear to both of them that this is the reason for their meeting. "But please, let me say before anything else that it is not merely because of that that I have chosen to court you."

Ingrid tilts her head. If true, that comes as a surprise, but she also doubts that anyone would openly admit that they are asking to marry her exclusively for her Crest. (Though, come to think of it, she might be more likely to accept someone who is that honest with her from the beginning.) "Oh?"

Gideon smiles, setting down his teacup. "For one thing, you are truly beautiful, Lady Galatea," he says, moving closer to sit on the cushion next to Ingrid. She eyes him somewhat warily, but sits her ground, since he is still some inches away. "As I said, I was not sure what to expect of such a woman, but… coming face-to-face with such loveliness, I can better imagine you on a throne than on the battlefield."

"Really?" asks Ingrid, taking a sip of her tea, and Gideon nods. Assuming that he isn't just trying some one-size-fits-all flattery worthy of Sylvain, such an impression is doubtless only because she is wearing too many layers for him to notice her hard-earned muscles. "That's a pity. I've been considering becoming a knight lately."

"A knight?" asks Gideon, blinking as if taken aback, though clears his expression hastily. "Forgive me, but I don't understand why a lady such as yourself would wish to return to the front lines. Particularly, if I may say so, given your marriage prospects."

Ingrid chooses, with difficulty, to ignore Gideon's latter point in favor of trying to discern his character. "Have you never wanted to fight?"

Gideon sighs. "I lack practical training as a soldier, and as I have no Crest, my father did not permit me to join the revolution against Imperial rule." He picks up his teacup, sliding his fingers along the porcelain as if preoccupied. "A regret which haunts me even now."

Ingrid sips her tea. "Many of my friends who fought in the war did not bear Crests."

"Ah," says Gideon, looking unnerved, and hides briefly behind his teacup. Ingrid guesses that he is buying time as he tries to think of a diplomatic response. "Yes, well… my family was under house arrest at the time."

"I'm sure it must have been difficult for you," says Ingrid, unable to fully keep the sarcasm out of her voice once again, and Gideon gives her a somewhat tense smile as he still does not recognize it. "But you haven't answered my question. Regardless of whether such a thing was possible, have you never _wanted_ to fight?"

Setting his now-empty cup down, Gideon hesitates as if trying to determine what the right answer is, and that in itself is enough of a response that it bodes ill for his response. "I abhor bloodshed," he says finally and, seeing Ingrid's expression, adds hastily, "I confess, I have not."

Ingrid purses her lips, at a complete loss as to how to reply. Regardless of the rest of Gideon's personality, and whatever his other faults or virtues may be, she cannot bring herself to marry any man with so little understanding of the principles that guide her. It is her turn to buy time by drinking tea, but she still cannot think of what to say even by the time she drains her cup.

There is a soft knock at the door, and Ingrid barely has time to look up before the maid opens it. Ingrid means to remind her politely that she requested they be left alone, but says nothing: the maid's countenance is anxious enough that something must be wrong. "Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius," she says, curtsying with bowed head, and stands aside an instant before Felix strides in.

Unconsciously, Ingrid stops breathing at the sight of him. He wears fur-lined attire befitting of his station, though—detesting gaudiness—still simpler than most other dukes. His hair is loose and down around his shoulders, his features as sharp as ever but rosy from the cold outside. Ingrid does not realize she has gotten to her feet until Gideon rises as well, in her peripheral vision. But she does not look at him; she can only stare at Felix, heart aching from the memory of their last parting, trying to take in the truth of his presence. Why has he come?

Felix surveys the room, almost as though he is observing a map of a battlefield, but his eyes are more accusatory than questioning. He must grasp the situation already, yet he does not leave. "Don't mind me," says Felix, gesturing to the two of them with a gloved hand, and crosses his arms. "Continue."

As a duke, Felix far outranks a baron's son, and Gideon has little choice to obey. Glancing sideways at Felix, he sinks back onto the couch. After a small pause, during which Felix turns to look out the window, Ingrid seats herself as well. "As I was saying, Lady Galatea," says Gideon, looking at Ingrid with more determination in his eyes than ever, "your reputation precedes you, but it does not do you justice. You are far lovelier than any of the accounts say."

Ingrid does not know what to say to that, not only because Gideon has said something to that effect once before, but because her thoughts are in disarray, drawn toward Felix. Unable to look at either him or Gideon, she focuses intently on her own clasped hands. "I… thank you."

"And, though the accounts of your valor are many, I am certain that you are still braver and more virtuous than they say," continues Gideon, not to be deterred by Ingrid's awkward response. "I am ashamed to admit that, given our respective circumstances, your battle prowess far exceeds my own, but I—"

"Then why are you even here?" asks Felix, cutting Gideon off. Ingrid narrows her eyes at his interruption, giving him a _look_ , but can say nothing as he turns around. The sky is overcast and dark enough that he is not backlit, and Ingrid can see clearly the scorn in his expression. It's breathtaking, in an odd sort of way. "Stop flattering her and get to the point."

Ingrid wishes she had the strength to reprimand Felix for speaking so harshly out of turn, but her heart agrees with him too much for her to tell him off. Instead, she glares at him silently. But her frown lessens as their eyes meet: he is not half as invested in glaring back at her. Why is he here, if not to continue their argument from last time? How can he ask Gideon the same question when his own motivations are infinitely more obscure?

"Sir," says Gideon, and Ingrid glances aside at him to find him glowering at Felix. Regardless of the impropriety, she cannot blame Gideon for showing his dislike openly; Felix is an expert at getting under people's skin, as she knows all too well. "I must admit that I don't know what business this is of yours."

"No, you don't," says Felix. "But you're wasting everyone's time. If you're going to ask her to marry you, then do it. I guarantee she's already made her choice."

However true that is, saying so to his face is crossing a line. "Felix," says Ingrid sharply, and to her surprise, he turns his back on them again. Only as Gideon looks at Ingrid, disarmed, does she realize that perhaps she should not reveal that they are on a first-name basis, lest he get the wrong idea. But it's too late now, she supposes, feeling herself blush.

Gideon clears his throat, his expression somewhere between resigned and resentful. "As my lord commands," he says, casting one more ugly look at Felix's back. Sliding off the couch, he sinks to one knee, taking Ingrid's hand in his own, and again she must suppress the urge to pull it back. "I beg of you, Lady Galatea, consent to be my wife."

Felix makes a derisive noise that could easily be mistaken for a retch, and Ingrid forces herself not to look at him. Instead, she gazes firmly down at Gideon as he continues, "I can assist you in the rebuilding of House Galatea and its territory, and I am capable of doing so from here. I have enough relatives to manage my own territory in the meantime."

Gideon's eyes are fixed on Ingrid's expression, his composure gradually unraveling to reveal something very like desperation. Ingrid, to her sorrow, recognizes its source. She has always agreed with Sylvain's efforts to persuade the noble houses that Crests are not necessary for their successors, but now, she feels more sympathetic to his cause than ever. If she were not entrapped by the very problem he seeks to solve, she would help him spread that word.

Ingrid realizes with a jolt that she has not actually said anything, but Felix takes it upon himself to respond in her stead, looking over his shoulder. "And I suppose, since you don't have a Crest, hers poses an advantage in more ways than one." Ingrid does not even have time to be furious with him for interrupting again before he continues, "I crossed blades with soldiers from your territory in the war. Your family is weak, and your people are sympathetic to the former Empire." He jerks his head at Ingrid, but keeps his eyes on Gideon, who looks back with clear reluctance. "Her reputation alone might dissuade anyone from rebelling. Is that it?"

Gideon turns pale. Realizing that Felix hit the mark, Ingrid cannot help but feel the slightest bit sorry for him, though it does not make her think more favorably of him in the context of marriage. "That… would certainly be advantageous," says Gideon, making an effort at a smile, though it looks more like a grimace, and turns back to Ingrid, searching her eyes earnestly. "But let me say this. If you wish to become a knight, let it be as my wife."

Felix narrows his eyes, but Ingrid is already looking back at Gideon, heart quickening at the prospects of returning to the battlefield. Even without understanding why she desires such a thing, would he still offer that freedom? That may be enough to tilt the scales in Gideon's favor, even if only to consider him. "You would offer me a position as a knight?"

"Gideon territory is vast and prosperous, even during this time of recovery, and bandit raids are a near-constant problem in some areas," says Gideon, his tone one of cautious hope. "I am sure I could convince my father to allow you onto the battlefield. Not on the front lines, of course; it's too dangerous for a—"

"Too dangerous?" asks Felix, taking a few steps forward. Ingrid gives him a warning scowl, but he ignores her, his eyes fixed on Gideon with the utmost contempt. "You and your craven family rolled over for the Empire and cowered in your manor while she fought for your freedom. She led the charge against enemies a hundred times stronger than you could ever be, and you think picking a fight with some bandits is too _dangerous_ for her?"

Ingrid is frozen in place while Felix speaks, transfixed by his sincerity, but when he falls silent, she can tolerate his interjections no longer. Gideon rises, but Ingrid is already on her feet by the time he straightens up, stepping around the table and striding forward until she's right in front of Felix. "A word, Duke Fraldarius," she growls, glaring up at him with all the force of her anger. "Outside. Now."

"Oh, no," says Felix, his eyes still fixed on Gideon. "I'm not going anywhere. If you have anything to say to me, you can say it in front of your latest suitor."

It's all Ingrid can do to keep her voice down, so she shoves her face closer to Felix's. "You dare interfere with my decisions, after saying my only choice is marriage?" she hisses, making an effort at secrecy, though it is all too likely that Gideon can still hear. "Do you feel like you need to step in and save me? You, of all people, are the last person I expected to play the knight in shining armor!"

"Don't tell me you want to marry him?" asks Felix, not troubling to keep his voice down.

"Who I marry and what I want is none of your business!" retorts Ingrid, throwing caution to the winds. "Aren't you the one who told me I could restore my house and become a knight at the same time as long as I married the right person?" As she speaks, Ingrid gestures to Gideon, but does not look at him, unable to bear the thought of what his expression must look like.

Felix does not share her reservations, as he glances over at Gideon with undisguised disgust. Whatever he did to offend Felix, it is apparently unforgivable. "And you really think this is the right person?" he asks, returning his eyes to Ingrid deliberately. (If they were having a staring contest, he must have won.) "At best, he considers you a good-luck charm. Don't come crying to me when he breaks all his promises and keeps you in a cage."

"Don't worry, I won't," says Ingrid, clenching her fists. "Your advice was _so_ helpful last time, I'll never come crying to you about anything ever again." Not that she actually cried about this particular dilemma in the first place, which annoys her all the more, since Felix is implying that she did. In front of Gideon, no less. Is he trying to slander her?

"I was just telling the truth," says Felix, maddeningly unperturbed. "Should I have lied and said House Galatea can survive without you, so you should go ahead and ride off into the sunset on your own? Or should I have told you to lay down your lance and marry the first man who comes your way?"

Ingrid sees red. "You _did_ tell me to—!"

"I told you to find a husband who understands that you aren't going to just settle down and bear their children," snaps Felix, raising his voice over Ingrid's, and she finds that his insistence renders her speechless. His eyes bore into hers, a fire smoldering deep behind them. "And you're seriously considering marrying someone who thinks you can't handle a nest of bandits? At this rate, you might as well just take the knighthood and abandon House Galatea after all."

Before Ingrid fully registers what she's doing, she draws back her fist and punches Felix in the jaw. He staggers, one hand flying to his cheek, and glares at her like a wolf about to lunge. But Ingrid is more than a match for him, and isn't about to stand down now. "I don't take orders from self-righteous, contrary, aggressive _hypocrites_!" she yells, and every word feels good, like a battle cry. "You might as well be a mercenary!"

"Like I haven't considered that," retorts Felix, eyes flashing, and drops his hand back to his side. "But unlike your single-minded devotion to becoming some fairytale knight, there are some things I care about that I can only do as a duke. Like asking His Majesty to send Fraldarius resources to Galatea."

Is Felix trying to say that Ingrid is in his debt? Does he think she owes him something? So great is her frustration that she wants to scream, but instead, she shouts the first thing that comes to mind: "If you're so concerned about my house, then why don't you marry me yourself, you _coward_!" Trying to externalize her anguish, Ingrid shoves Felix; he can certainly take it. But he steps aside, seizing her by the wrists and redirecting her momentum so that she stumbles.

Ingrid braces herself to fall, but it does not happen: Felix keeps her upright, holding her by the forearms. "I will if you let me ask this time!"

After a moment's instinctive struggle, Felix's words sink in, and Ingrid freezes. That was reasonably close to the last thing she expected. Though her lips are parted, Ingrid can say nothing, her head spinning from sudden doubt and confusion as her anger cools and evaporates. All this time, has Felix been trying to imply that she should marry him specifically?

"You got angry and left before I could say it," says Felix more quietly, leaning closer to gaze into Ingrid's eyes with intensity she has rarely seen except in battle. She feels the heat rise to her cheeks—at his words? At his proximity? It doesn't matter. "I want to restore Galatea _with_ you, not _for_ you, and… I also want you at my side on the battlefield. You're on my mind, day and night, and it's beginning to drive me crazy."

The sincerity in Felix's tone and expression is undeniable, as is the flush across his face, and Ingrid finds that she cannot look away. Their disagreements are constant and passionate, but their fights are invariably rooted in their care for one another. Both of them have understood that for years, yet Ingrid never grasped the depth of either his affections or her own. Underlying this helpless fixation—this electric restlessness—this resentful pining—is an abiding tenderness, so subtle that Ingrid did not notice it before. But now that she sees it, sees _him_ , she can see nothing else.

For all Felix's flaws and quirks, she loves him. And clearly, he feels the same.

"You're asking…" begins Ingrid, her voice faint to her own ears. She knows, but she wants to hear Felix say it, with desperation she did not anticipate. Ingrid's betrothal to Glenn was arranged by their parents upon her birth; he never had a chance to propose. But this is an engagement entered into willingly, as adults, and Ingrid wants to feel for herself that it is not simply a legal contract.

Felix takes a breath, sliding his hands down into hers. "Ingrid Brandl Galatea," he murmurs, cupping both her hands in his and bringing them up between their chests. He looks so gentle and anxious, nothing like the disdainful expression he wore up until moments ago. He seems almost like a different person, but Ingrid recognizes him as the man she loves. "Marry me. Please."

Ingrid doesn't realize that she's about to cry until Felix's face blurs from sudden tears, but at the same time, she can't keep from smiling. "Yes, Felix," breathes Ingrid, trembling, and his eyes widen slightly, his hands tightening around her own. "I… I'll marry you."

"You will?" asks Felix, and he sounds so disarmed that Ingrid can't help but laugh, even though it comes out almost like a sob. Allowing herself to embrace him, she buries her face in his chest. Felix must be in shock, because it takes a moment for him to put his arms around her, but then he holds her tightly, like he's making sure she's real, or like he doesn't want to let her go.

Gideon coughs pointedly in the background, and Ingrid starts, turning her head against Felix to look at him. She all but forgot about his presence, and blushes all the deeper at the realization that he has been watching the entire time. "It seems my suit is hopeless, then."

"It—it seems so," says Ingrid, making an effort at a smile, though it probably looks more than a little sheepish. This must have been utterly bewildering for him. "I'm sorry, Lord Gideon. I wish you and your family the best of luck."

After an awkward bow, Gideon departs in such a hurry that he leaves the door ajar, and Ingrid can't really blame him. Still, she has some apprehensions about what he might say. With a similarly high-ranked witness, news of their betrothal will spread among the nobility rather more quickly than usual, but at least these rumors are true.

Felix's fingers tap Ingrid's chin, and she looks up at him to find that he is gazing at her as though he will never look away, his eyes full of something like wonderment. As captivated as he looks, Ingrid feels the same way, so that she scarcely notices that they are leaning in until their lips meet.

Their kiss is tentative at first, but less so as they relax. Then it becomes curious, exploratory, a mutual reassurance that this is neither dream nor fantasy.

They do not break away because they need breath, but because Ingrid wishes to speak. "I love you, Felix," she murmurs, and it feels as good to say that as it did to insult him earlier—perhaps even better. Theirs is a complicated relationship, fraught with more kinds of tension than she knows how to differentiate, but she cannot think of anyone else with whom she would rather share her life.

"I…" Felix clears his throat, turning scarlet. "I… love you too."

The last few words come out in a rush, almost blending together, and Ingrid cannot help but smile. He'll need to get used to saying it now and again, but she supposes that they _were_ practically at one another's throats earlier. Still, she cannot resist teasing him. "Convincing," she says, and Felix makes a faint noise of embarrassment, looking away with a scowl. Ingrid touches his cheek, guiding him gently back to face her. "If you can't tell me, then showing me is acceptable."

Felix gazes down at her one moment longer, as if making sure she is serious, before one corner of his mouth tugs up in a tiny smirk. Ingrid does not have time to question why before he leans in and kisses her again.

This kiss is every bit as passionate as their earlier argument, quickly deepening enough that Ingrid feels weak in the knees. She wasn't expecting such sudden ardor, but she gets the feeling that in their forthcoming marriage, she is going to have to expect the unexpected. And besides, even in the sitting room, they are still alone.

"How did it…" begins a voice, seemingly at a great distance, and Felix and Ingrid jump apart.

Count Galatea stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, looking between the two of them in search of an explanation. He does not seem angry, but Ingrid still cannot quite meet his eyes. He must have seen Gideon leave and assumed it was safe to return, which was an entirely rational assumption. Ingrid should have been more cautious.

"F-Father," says Ingrid, wanting to sink through the floor. What was she thinking, challenging Felix like that in a place like this, before their engagement is even finalized? What must Count Galatea think of her—and Felix, for that matter? Considering that a duke outranks a count, there is little chance that Ingrid's father will refuse to bless their union, but _still_. "I was just… we were…"

Clearing his throat, Felix bows. "Count Galatea," he says, and somehow musters a smile. "I'd like to ask permission to marry your daughter."

**Author's Note:**

> You've heard of Sylvain never letting Dimitri live down giving a knife to Edelgard, now get ready for Sylvain never letting Felix live down not giving Ingrid a ring. (But it's not like she remembered about that little detail either, so he can shut it.)


End file.
